


Season Sixty-Nine

by keicros_caramel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Porn, Aromatherapy, Candles, Consensual Kink, Drabble, Exes, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hedonism, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, I Only Like You For Sex, Light Angst, M/M, May Write Second Part Idk, Memories, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Nostalgia, Not Beta Read, One Night Stands, PWP without Porn, Past Relationship(s), Regret, Second Chances, Secret Identity, Self-Reflection, Sex, Wax Play, dtf, ghosting, vulgarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25027396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keicros_caramel/pseuds/keicros_caramel
Summary: Arthur is a writer famous for the realism of his erotic works. The reason behind such is of course, every thing is based on a real life event. His remedy for his writer’s block is none other than going out to fuck and write about the experience on the next chapter.TLDR; Arthur fucks guys around his town and reflects on it.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), England/Portugal (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Season Sixty-Nine

" _I know you're a sadomasochist, but really? Laundry at a Monday?_ ” 

Arthur grimaced, stepping into the camera’s view and shrugged at his brother’s face. He tapped his smartphone’s screen once to display the top bar, reading the time ticking thirty minutes until 9. 

“What?” he replied. “I just don’t want my laundry to pile up, unlike yours.” He mumbled the last bit, but that didn’t stop Alistair from sputtering comments. Arthur ignored this and moved back to hang more clothes fresh from the washer. 

“ _Tch, whatever. You ruined my mood,_ ” Alistair said, his voice muffled from the phone speakers propped on the counter. “ _You’re lucky you don’t work Mondays._ ” 

Arthur smirked proudly, raising up the last shirt and hanging it up on his clothesline. He glanced back at his phone and saw his brother tying a tie on his bedroom mirror. 

“Say hi to Patrick and Dylan for me.” Arthur wiped his damp hands on his pants before pressing the red ‘end call’ icon. He saw Alistair raise a thumbs up before the screen went back to display his Twitter feed. 

When Alistair told him he was a sadomasochist, it was clearly just an expression but it amused him that Alistair wasn’t far from the truth, context aside. None of his brothers, let alone the snarkiest, knew of his job’s exact details. Arthur was a writer and online blogger, sure, but there was a reason why his stories even became his primary source of income. 

It was because everything is based from a real life event. 

Of course, no one needed to know that. Especially due to his stories’ sexual nature and eroticism of the weirdest things in life. 

His ebooks became a top seller and was even nominated for online awards. His pen-name is treated like a celebrity in the literature community. In fact, he was actually surprised nobody figured out his real identity yet. 

Arthur grabbed his phone off the laundry room counter and walked out to his sofa for some well-deserved rest. Alistair did have a point: doing laundry in a Monday is _1) unheard of_ and _2) exhausting_. The reason why he had enough energy for such Once In A Blue Moon™ task was because the tea he brewed that morning was exceptionally tasting better than usual. 

Oh, and great sex the night before that gave him the most relaxing sleep he had in months. 

It was with a fireman who stations at his area and lives just the next city over. Cute face, good hygiene, smells good, Hispanic accent, muscular; he was saved in his contacts as “Henrique”. 

Considering Arthur only had one brain and he already uses half of it for irony and spite, the sex involved candles and aromatherapy. You know, for the sake of it and the change of pace. Also, it helps him pinpoint which person he had which night. It was becoming more and more of a problem the more he continues what he does. 

“So candles was with fireman guy,” he told himself. He made it obvious enough and it was one of the best decisions he’d ever made—it saved his suffering sleeping schedule. The Portuguese’s room smelled like lavender at the end and Arthur loved it so much he insisted to keep the candles for “sentimental purposes”, which lasted just an overnight. Now, his entire flat smelled like a good fluffy dream. 

The moment he went home, he went to work. His body felt relaxed and ached for the bed, but he tried his best to spill everything he got onto his phone for next chapter’s outline. He made sure to highlight the aromatherapy part; _who knew lavender made sex so much better?_ He should try it again sometime. 

It was basically his routine every other writer block or so. He would go out, contact friends, meet new people, and reach third base before 3am. Not that he necessarily went through the first two bases, and not that it guarantees that the sex would be novel-material, but it was enjoyable for the most part nonetheless. Everytime he went out, he kept laughing at himself at who he became in contrast to who his family and friends thought he was. He was careful with his writer's block remedy though; none of his friends were necessarily open-minded. 

With that said, Henrique wasn't the first guy he had such nights with. It came without saying that his phone was littered with text messages, missed calls and notifications from all the people he slept with over the years. Now, that was the thing he always had a problem about. Only 40 percent of the hookups were just that—hookups—but the other 60 percent were either old friends or worse, _old lovers_. He tried his best to never had any strings attached again, but looking for old co-workers and old classmates to sleep with were better than picking randomly at a bar. The downside is that these people knew him, and some weren’t really aware of the no-strings attached rule. Arthur admits he felt pretty bad. 

Who was he kidding, it _haunted_ him. He only had one romantic partner before he started the writing gig, and she gave him enough emotional trauma it made it hard to love and trust someone romantically again. He knew how miserable it felt to love someone only to end up ghosted. He was working on it really but every time he found someone worth a call after the first date, he ended up doing the same thing: working on reaching third base before disappearing. 

He became so into his “slightly” hedonistic lifestyle that bringing someone willing to be with him long-term became a worst case scenario. It did nothing for his paranoia and trust issues. Who would date someone who had a body count higher than 10 and had the freakiest of kinks? The odds of someone saying yes to that are less than his odds of quitting. 

He did his thing cleanly, though. He had frequent tests and also made sure everyone involved were also clean. He made sure to at least know everyone from a mutual friend just in case he got himself some kind of serial killer (he’s not thriller writer, damn it!) and also made sure everyone involved enjoyed it as much as he did. His perspective on morality being involved in intercourse was long rotten in the back of his mind; pleasure is the best thing that could exist on this Earth. 

Maybe it messed him up. Maybe writing _already_ got him messed up. Maybe his writer’s block coping mechanism pushed him to the edge. _Who cares._

A notification ring woke him up from a nap he didn’t realize he was falling into. He did only have a 5-hour sleep; he should have seen that coming. He reached for his phone that fell to his side, squinting at the lock screen to read the message. 

> _Arthur, will we ever meet again?_

He blinked at the screen once more before placing the phone back down. Staring at the whiteness of his ceiling with no chance of ever falling back into sleep, Arthur sighed. 

Francis Bonnefoy was a part of the 60 percent, but Arthur wouldn’t deny that the feeling was mutual. He was an old colleague at the newspaper company he used to work at, perfect with a handsome face and sharp (albeit sarcastic) wit and an easy atmosphere. Arthur initially tried to remember him by correlating him with banter and wine nights, but he got more than what he bargained for. 

Even to this day, Arthur could remember the nights (yes, plural) that he spent on Francis’ soft mattress. Francis was one of the best he’s ever had, despite their entire brand being “rivals” and the sex being a warzone. He even had a toothbrush at the Frenchman’s old apartment; that _has_ to count as something! 

He and Francis spoke cryptically. He could never remember a single time either of them spoke what they really meant. It was a great practice for Arthur’s vocabulary, but Francis _topped_ him at that and at bed. The Frenchman whispered velvet poetry under his breath and by Arthur’s ear, and combining the poetic language to the accent that brushes against his skin, it was the most blissful orgasm he had ever gotten. Of course, he would never say that to Francis, as the man’s ego is one insufferable bastard on itself.

Not that Arthur would meet him again anyway. 

Francis moved back to his beloved home country just a month ago, long after their rose-colored nights spent together. Meeting him again would take Arthur to sacrifice everything he had back home—from the flight tickets to the literal lifestyle he lived alone. Even before Francis left, his phone was filled with daily messages that reminded him of the happiest yet saddest moments they had together. Whether Arthur liked it or not, feelings did got involved. 

But Francis was the type of man who would love someone and marry them. The type of man someone would find to be husband-material. Making a family, cooking breakfast for the spouse, taking the kids to school—all that stuff. And Arthur wasn’t made for that. He doesn’t want kids, nor does he have any cooking skill either. Nor does he plan on marrying at all. It was just... _no_. Besides, Francis was a great newspaper editor. He was made for opportunities and travels. Arthur simply wasn’t.

But sometimes, he thinks back to the three whole months he spent with him. It was full of banter, hickeys, soft touches, good wine and kisses that were more of a battle on lips. Of course, it took a major lot of his pride to even accept that he liked a frog out of all people he met, but denying the truth won’t do him (and his romance novel) any good. 

The only piece he had of Francis left with him was the novel he wrote during those months. It became a top-seller because of the sad yet fulfilling ending, and at least filled his bank account with rent money for years. Now that he thought of it, that could be a summary of most of his relationships. _Sad yet fulfilling..._

Did he just find his life in a nutshell? _Bloody hell._

He grabbed his phone again and stared at the message once more before swiping it away. He always wanted to block or at least delete the contact, but he never really brought it upon himself to do so. Francis gave him a chance at love again. He was kind. He was open. He deserved to be a part of his life a little longer than the others. 

Arthur brought his hand up to massage the bridge of his nose. _He should really delete the contact after all, huh?_

He sighed before pressing his thumb on the home button and went to scroll absent-mindedly on his pen name Twitter. His fellow writers announced new chapters, did some updates on their lives, had new pets and achievements, all that stuff he barely cared about, until another notification appeared at the top. 

> @theheroishere liked: i walked to the store this morning and guess what i...

Arthur clicked on it before he realized what he did. _First, Francis, now this._

He switched to his real name Twitter account and refreshed his notification page to read that his precious Starbucks guy found his Twitter. 

_ʜᴇʀᴏ liked 6 of your tweets_

Arthur found himself on a newbie Twitter account in less than 5 seconds. The profile picture stared at him like a reminder of a softer part of his life, which it really was. Smelled like humidity, lung-aching laughter, untouched glasses—he remembered it all again. “Hero” was the motorcycle guy. 

Alfred Jones started out as the pizza delivery who earned a bigger tip from Arthur just because he was good looking and looked like the protagonist from his novel. It was a great coincidence, Arthur might say. 

> ʜᴇʀᴏ @theheroishere • 9h 
> 
> my brother asked me what pet i'd get if i could. i think you know the answer to that matt of course an eagle! 

Then one day, they saw each other at Starbucks, one wearing a uniform and standing behind the counter. They got into a small talk on how Alfred was a broke American college student doing as much sidelines as he can to survive in a foreign country. Arthur remembered feeling bizarre for a moment since his time spent at that counter is eerily similar to when he was at his night out asking the bartender for a decent DTF (down to fuck) regular. 

It was a few days of iced coffee and tea brews at Starbucks (that may have affected Arthur’s blood sugar more than he expected) before numbers were finally exchanged. It surprised Arthur that he almost forgot about his goal to get to third base just from how distracted he was with their small routine. Speaking to that one barista is just one of the comforts his dull days pushed him to. Alfred even quit being delivery guy to get longer shifts at said coffeehouse....for _him._

Alfred was peace. He was the blue skies that blankets over London’s sunniest days. He was the crisp wind of freedom when you roll down the windows on a road trip. He was youth and he was fleeting. That was one thing all the younger people had in common. They all had dreams and they all had some place they wanted to be. 

Staying wasn’t really their thing. 

> ʜᴇʀᴏ @theheroishere • 14h  
> i can't wait until i graduate and i get to go wherever and whenever   
> 

In Alfred’s case, it felt just like that. On the first few times Alfred offered to drive him around the city for favors (and for flirting opportunities), he talked of wanting to be an astronaut at age 8, a president at age 13 and an engineer at age 22. He talked of how he got his motorcycle because of his brother who lives in Canada. He talked of how he wanted to have pools in his house, both for swimming and billiard. He talked of how he wanted to earn enough money to get his brother with him so they could build the best treehouse fort. 

No one who speaks like that would want to stay in one place for long. 

For him to reach said dreams, he had to go somewhere. He had to do some things. He had to leave some people behind. Arthur repeated that to himself every night in fear of catching feelings and digging his grave deeper than it already is. 

When Arthur finally got what he wanted, it was soft. Technically, it's _vanilla_ garnished with praise kinks here and there. It wasn't like the classic old sex though; it felt like slowly falling into a field grass cushion watching the sky go by. Alfred clearly had experience and the stamina to last a few roundsーsomething not everyone he slept with had. 

Arthur remembered burying his head on Alfred's broad shoulders as he clung onto his leather jacket while they cycled. Alfred was driving him to a hotel that Arthur paid (and planned) for, and for once the arousal and eagerness in his pants wasn't his top concern. Nor was it the novel he was writing. He kept thinking of how the pattern could be disrupted; maybe he won't ghost Alfred the day after. Maybe he should call for once. 

Alfred had no idea what he was bringing to the table, but neither did anyone else who he picked the other nights. Unlike the other times, it was the first time Arthur was more emotional than horny when the novel came to an end. It was because Alfred was different; he was younger than the others he was used to dealing with. He doesn't seem to have emotional trauma like he and many others had. It seemed like Alfred haven't even experienced having one night stands before, nor did it seem like he had other friends with benefits...nor did it seem like he knew what _ghosting_ even means. 

Arthur spent the rest of the ride drying up silent tears on Alfred's jacket. He knew he can't stop what he does. He knew that was goodbye. For some reason, it felt like hugging Alfred while he drives is the closest he ever had on having a physical embodiment of regret. Alfred was the first person he regretted knowing. 

Later that night, while he held him as close as two naked bodies could get, while he tried to remember how Alfred felt, while he tried to conceal the tears as pleasure, he traced every muscle, every movement, every moan and lustful whispers into memory. Then at the night, he kissed him goodbye and left a note. Maybe he didn't plan Alfred very well. 

Okay, he didn't plan Alfred _at all._

He was a convenience that became a reminder of the hearts he broke over the years- 

"Bloody-" 

The phone smacked him on the face when it slid past his hand. He sniffed, realizing there were teardrops welling in his eyes. 

One thing was for sure, though. Crying over Alfred wouldn't do him any good. He would live with his denial (lifetime coping mechanism award) for now. He needed to _focus..._

He took a deep breath before going back to his homescreen, never pressing any hearts or the follow button on his old subject... ~~old lover~~...old friend's account. He wasn't in the mood to scroll on any of his social media anymore, since the dissociation stuck from the middle of nowhere. 

Maybe he should cook lunch. Or finish his aromatherapy draft from last night. Or nap. 

Sometimes, he wondered what would happen if he went to college instead of dropping out. Would he be different? Would he remain a writer? Or would he remain as another word that starts with W? 

_“God, what a whore.”_

Arthur honestly can’t remember who said that to him, though the words stuck. It was degradation, yes, but it hit different the first time he heard it. Was he considered a whore? Aren’t whores paid for what they do? 

If he were to be honest, some nights he regretted what he does ( _whatever it was called)_ especially after some awkward encounters with virgins or just straight up bad sex. Thankfully, he didn't stumble to some freaks that hurt him on purpose _(yet),_ but he can't help but regret his decisions either way.

Maybe he should call Francis. Or follow Alfred on Twitter. 

Okay, he should nap. That's one thing for sure. The surge of energy from the good sex last night worn off; time to recharge. 

**Author's Note:**

> I may write the actual porn next chapter, but this will suffice for now. I just wanted to post this so bad.


End file.
